


The Many Pieces of You

by Seductresses_Temple



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anxiety Attacks, BAMF Hermione Granger, Black Hermione Granger, Black James Potter, Canon Character Death (mention), Colorism, Draco Malfoy Speaks French, Draco has a magic kink, Eventual Smut, F/M, Graphic Violence, Hermione Granger & Harry Potter Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Identity, Intersectionality, Kink Discovery, M/M, Magically Powefful Harry Potter, Minor James Potter/Lily Evans Potter, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Physical Abuse, Pining, PoC Harry, Powerful Harry, Praise Kink, Racial Slur Usage, Racism, Slow Burn, Temporary Character Death, once - Freeform, self discovery, the n-word, they aren't alive but you'll just have to read and see
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-21
Updated: 2019-01-17
Packaged: 2019-07-15 00:25:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16051667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seductresses_Temple/pseuds/Seductresses_Temple
Summary: No one ever told Harry that Wizards should be very careful what they wish for.





	1. Hidden Pieces

**Author's Note:**

> Woah, so, let me start off by saying that I really struggled with this chapter. Which is funny because it's the only fanfiction I've ever wanted to do where I have an intricate, Hermione-esque outline of exactly where I want to take the story. Yet, when I sat down to start it, I really fumbled over the nightmare sequence. I'm still not 100% happy with it but I can always go back and edit it. I'm trying out this new thing where I actually force myself to write and try to be happy with the story as a collective whole instead of obsessing over being unhappy with one or two scenes. I can honestly say that, overall, I'm tremendously pleased with how this chapter turned out. I don't like doing excessively long opening author's notes because I feel like it distracts too much from the story. As much as I would love to pour my heart and soul out to you guys at the beginning of the story I have a nagging suspicion -because I do it all the time- that you'll get bored two sentences in and just skip to the story and sometimes us author's have important things to say in our notes! So I'll try to be BRIEF! 
> 
> My head canon for Harry and Hermione is that Harry is bi-racial and Hermione is black. People of color, even more specifically queer people of color are so underrepresented in fantasy and I strive to make content that hits home for as many of my intersecting identities as possible. If that's not something you can vibe with, well, the good thing about fanfiction is that there's literally thousands of other stories for you to read without shaming me or tearing down my writing. In my eyes, when I read the original books, Harry and Hermione are smol black beans and I love them with all my heart. It's not up for debate, you view them how you wish and I'm free to do the same.
> 
> In keeping with trying to align my writing with my intersecting identities, this story specifically -probably more than my other ones- will deal with issues such as racism, colorism, sexual and racial identity, homophobia, mental illness, abuse, and other tough topics that I have either dealt with first hand or see on a day to day basis. What makes fiction, fantasy in particular, so enjoyable is its out of the way ability to incorporate reality. Fiction is simultaneously real and not real and that in and of itself is its own particular brand of magic.
> 
> I have SUPER EXTENSIVE notes at the end of this chapter cause I have LOTS to say about this fic. If you'd like to read it, please do, if you feel its "too much" that's okay too but I needed to say it. I hope this story can bring forth a lot of dialogue.

_"Severus...please..." Dumbledore's final words words seem to echo, hollow and heartbreaking._

_A part of him, somewhere deep, knows he is dreaming but the nightmare is in full swing. The memory is too raw, too visceral, too fresh to stop it now. Harry watches himself watching the scene, mute and horrified, immobilized by the inevitable._

_Snape's arm is rising, Harry feels his jaw unhinge to scream, to protest, to stop the horror in front of him. He is powerless to stop it: motionless, suffocating, helpless._

_"Avada Kedavra," the words pouring out of Snape's mouth like poison. Vile._

_Green, everything awash with sickly, sinister green. Illuminating the tower. Hitting Dumbledore square in the chest. Frozen, silent, Harry's screams never leave him...he just watches. Watching Dumbledore blasted into the air, body suspended for just a moment below the shining skull of the dark mark looming in the sky...then falling...tilting backward over the battlements...like a rag doll...falling....falling._

"No!" Harry's scream ripped its way through his throat as he bolted upright in bed, chest heaving with the difficulty of drawing air into his lungs. His body drenched in sweat, messy raven hair matted against his skin as his eyes darted wildly around his bedroom. He was "home," not back on the Astronomy tower. The thought of either place made his stomach churn dreadfully. Dumbledore was dead...he was stuck at the Dursley's, plagued by his nightmares, and there was a deep, heavy aching in his heart. A sob bubbled up to the surface, loud and watery, his tears streaming down his face quickly as he twisted his fists in the thin sheet pooled around his waist. He couldn't help himself, couldn't keep the wave of emotions threatening to drown him at bay any longer.

His body wouldn't allow it, too sick of swallowing his emotions down day after day. 

"Boy!" Uncle Vernon barged into the room, his face screwed up tight and an alarming shade of red. His voice a thundering roar as he slammed the door with such force that the top hinge gave away and hung haphazardly against the frame. He closed the gap between them in one stride and grabbed Harry up by the collar of his shirt.

"All this noise," he snarled, low and feral.

The back-handed slap to Harry's face was so sharp it echoed for a brief moment through the still quiet of the room. Of all the abuse Harry had suffered at the hands of the Dursley's, none of them had ever gone so far as to hit him in the face. No, it was always out of sight.

"We feed you," Vernon huffed "we clothe you, keep a roof over your head and put up with your  _freakishness_ ," the sneer that his lips contorted into was a most unpleasant thing. Every utterance of the word 'you' was punctuated with a sharp blow to whatever part of his body Vernon landed on. It seemed, Harry thought darkly, that Vernon wasn't even aiming anymore.

He just wanted to hit Harry.

He'd probably always wanted to hit Harry.

"I've had it! " Vernon shoved Harry away from him as if he'd been burnt. The loud  _thwack_ of Harry's head colliding against the wall seemed to bring a sick pleasure to Vernon, his grin wide and malicious under the scruff of his mustache. "Justice," he dragged the word out slowly before he grabbed Harry up by his collar and swiftly sucker punched him in the face again, chuckling faintly as blood slowly flowed down over his knuckles. Something had been started that Vernon quite intended to finish. Punching Harry felt more delightful than anything he'd had felt within the past decade. He didn't seem able to stop. The  _freak_ deserved this, he reconciled, and Vernon was a man who firmly believed in people getting precisely what was coming to them. Comeuppance was a needed and gratifying thing.

The room was filled with a cacophony of noises. Hedwig hooted frantically in her cage. Her wings fluttering frantically as she tried and failed to flee, to help. Rushed footsteps pounded against the floorboards as Petunia and Dudley came rushing into the room. Petunia's voice, tight and quiet, urged Vernon to "leave the boy before the neighbors hear," her excess of neck craning over the scene to peek out the window.

Dudley sniggered and encouraged his father "More nightmares about your boyfriend?" he taunted.

"Not Cedric!" he was downright cackling while Vernon landed a deathly blow. The sharp crack of it resounded through the room and Dudley merely smiled. After all, Harry had been his favorite punching bag growing up, it seemed only fair that his father should finally get his turn.

They both stood in the doorway watching in fixated silence as Vernon drove his fists into every part of Harry he could reach with wild abandon. Vernon was a man outside of sanity and there seemed to be no talking him down. Not that Petunia tried particularly hard. She'd been protecting the boy for as long as she could, after all, protecting him from Vernon's wrath. If it weren't for her, Vernon probably would have drowned the boy in the bath before he'd even turned two. Petunia had done her work and she hadn't seen Vernon so riled up since the incident with all the letters. She still remembered the way he'd forced them to pack up and herded them into the car with no destination in mind all because of the _boy's_ freakishness. The freakishness he got from  _her_ side of the family. Her husband had finally lost all patience, and in her opinion, he was well within his right.

It had all become too much. 

Vernon had only ever agreed to keep the boy because of her in the first place, because of the love she harbored still for the image of Lily in her mind. The stipend they received for the boy's care helped as well, helped them live comfortably, and keep Dudley the happy boy he'd always been, but the boy was nearly an adult now. A foolhardy adult just like his mother, prepared to go and get himself killed the same way she had. It was all distasteful business. It was bad enough the boy was a  _pickaninny_ -which was hard enough to hide from the neighbors- but from the moment he first opened his eyes, Lily's eyes, Petunia felt an unfortunate lurch on her heartstrings. There was still a piece of her, as loath as she was to admit it, that mourned the Lily of her youth before that greasy haired urchin stole her away, before that awful James Potter ruined her, before their silly war killed her...Petunia had enough of heartbreak. They had agreed to keep him so long as they could manage his freakish qualities, beat and exhaust the impurity out of him...

 

But it was only getting worse. The nightmares, the screaming, the lights in other houses flicking on in response, the questions and concerns, the whispers from the neighbors about the dreadful, nocturnal noises that come from Number 4 Privet Drive in the wee hours in the morning. It had all become too much. Vernon couldn't tolerate anymore of it. Petunia didn't blame him nor hold it against him. They'd kept the boy for sixteen years, nearly seventeen, but at some point enough had to be  _enough._

"Let's have some tea, darling," Petunia muttered quietly, resting her hands on Dudley's shoulders as she gently turned him away and toward the stairs. He huffed but brightened considerably when she reminded him there was ice cream in the ice box. He practically flew down the stairs.

"Vernon, dear, do try to keep it down," she murmured, pausing ever so briefly for a final look at Harry before she gingerly closed the door. She hoped Vernon saw whatever he was doing to completion and she'd never have to open that door again. She wanted to close the door on all memories of her sister. 

"Yes dear," Vernon's tone was distracted but obliging, blinking at the door for a moment as if he hadn't registered that his family had been there until they left. All it took was low groan from the direction of Harry's battered body to draw his attention back. He was finally going to end his family's strife and he was damn well going to enjoy it for the all pain and suffering he'd endured while having the boy in his care.

He punched Harry in the gut forcefully.

He was dispensing justice, acting as judge and executioner.

He made sure to remind his nephew just how much he was abhorred, shouting every obscenity at Harry he could think of and when that failed him, he resorted to reminding him of his worthlessness.

"Godless freak."

"An abomination just like your  _mongrel_  of a father."

"Worthless burden."

"Stupid boy."

"Disgusting filth."

"This will shut you up!" Vernon wrapped both of his hands around Harry's frail neck, dragging him down to the floor and leaning all of his monstrous weight into him. Green eyes snapped open, darting frantically across his uncle's face. Harry could just barely register Hedwig's cries past the ringing in his ears.

 _This is it, this is how I'm going to die,_ he thought numbly, desperately drawing wheezes of air in through his nose and feeling his chest hiccup as the air died halfway down to his lungs. He'd been fending off Voldemort since he was eleven yet this, being strangled to death by his own uncle, would finally be what killed him. There had to be, he reasoned, some deep irony there he wasn't seeing. Hermione would see it, if she were there.

_I'm never going to see Hermione again..._

_I'm never going to see Ron...or Gred and Forge_

As his eyes rolled back in his head, he caught sight of a blur of white he figured had to be Hedwig.

_Sorry girl, you were the best owl a guy could ever ask for._

He could feel his extremities tingling, a deep cold creeping over his body. He always imagined his death to be sudden and painless, a quick  _Avada Kedavra_ to the chest, like Dumbledore, and dead before he even fell to the ground. Yet here he was, death creeping over him like a snowfall, cold and slow.

A light flicked on in the house next door. Vernon paused,suddenly feeling as though he had an audience. He strode over to the window and peered out, huffing softly as he close the curtains tight. His nephew was dead -or if he wasn't he would be before morning- and he felt as though a humongous weight had been lifted off his shoulders. A small, pleased smile tugged at the corners of his lips as he gingerly opened up the door. He could dispose of the body in a bit. Few people in his life even knew of the boy's existence. Most of the neighbors never saw him, it wasn't like they let him out of the house all too often. Of the neighbors that did see him, most thought he was simply a lowly at-risk youth and found the Dursley's ever so charitable for keeping the miscreant around as their gardener. So long as none of their possessions turned up missing and their homes remained unburgaled, none of them seemed to mind having a delinquent in their midst. There was Mrs.Figg, but the old bat with all her cats was so off kilter, the only people who'd listen to her would have to be just as off center as she was. No one, Vernon Dursley wagered, need know about the Potters. That was the thought lingering with Vernon as he closed the door to the tiniest bedroom of number 4 Privet Drive.

As the door creaked shut, Harry Potter, the boy that was destined to save the Wizarding World drew in his final wheeze of a breath. His magic crackling, erratic and static-y like the snowy scramble on the telly as his final thoughts swirled around his in his brain. His body was trying to fight, it was so used to fighting, but there was no escaping Death. He couldn't escape it anymore than Dumbledore had. All he could do, in his final moments, was be honest with himself...  _I just wish....wish someone was here with me. Don't wanna die alone..I wish someone who loved me more than anything was here, someone who loved me so I wouldn't....have to die....alone. I wish..._ The last thing Harry heard before death finally came for him in the tiniest bedroom of number 4 Privet Drive was a sharp intake of breath and his surname, whispered by an eerily familiar voice.

\--------------------------------------------------

Harry had not been expecting death to be so blindingly bright. With a great amount of effort, he slowly cracked his eyes open -the action making him fully conscious of just how tightly he'd screwed them shut- and looked around. Everything was shrouded in white that was -somehow- both misty and piercingly clear, but, he was fairly certain that he was at Kings Cross of all places.

"Hullo, Harry," a voice called to him, making him whirl around suddenly. His heart -because apparently dead people still had hearts somehow- dropped to his stomach. Sitting on a bench, clad in all white, messy raven hair framing his brown, chiseled face, was his father. Harry's feet shuffled forward on their own accord until he was standing in front of James Potter, feeling as though he were looking in a mirror that just happened to get your eye color wrong.

"Prongslet," James breathed, standing up and drawing Harry into his chest, holding him close against him.

Harry threw his arms around his father and his tears were leaking out of him like a broken faucet. His dad! He didn't understand it, he didn't care if this were just some sort of oxygen-deprived death dream or afterlife limbo, his dad was hugging him! He could feel the warmth of his skin and the rumble of his voice as he whispered soft, soothing comforts into his ear. Harry had no idea what he was saying but his voice was steady, low, and calming as strong, large hands rubbed soothing circles into his back.

"Come have a seat with your old man," James said after what felt like a forever hug. He pulled away and Harry nearly sobbed at the loss of contact. The minute that they sat down, his dad drew him into his side and kissed the crown of his head.

"Where are we?" of all the things he ever wanted to ask his father, Harry was irritable that his curiosity got the better of him.

"Mm, bit of an in between place," James shrugged, something in his tone struck Harry as suspiciously noncommittal.

"You've your mothers eyes," the smile on James' face was wide, genuine, lopsided, and so utterly Harry's that the youngest Potter could feel more tears forming.

"I've heard that a lot the past couple years but I don't think it's ever meant anything to me until now," he mused.

"Cause I'm dear old dad and, as such, I'm more important than nearly everyone, 'cept your mum, and Moony, and Padfoot....and Ron....and Hermione, And well, aren't you Mr.Bloody Popular?" his lips twisted up into a fearsome pout, brown eyes glittering with an ecstatic mirth.

"You know about Ron and Hermione?" Harry couldn't keep the shock out of his voice even if he tried.

James stared at his son critically before heaving a dramatic sigh "you clearly get your cluelessness from Padfoot's side of the family," he muttered. "I'm your father, just because some sodding arsehole saw fit to scratch me out of the equation, as it were, doesn't mean I've ever left my little Prongslet's side," the  _duh_  seemed to be heavily implied. Harry couldn't help but chuckle, fiddling with the hem of his shirt.

"I'm so sorry Prongslet," James whispered, all lightheartedness fleeing him. He withdrew his arm from around Harry and stared down at his hands. "I-I met them once, you know? Your aunt Petunia, oh well she certainly hated your mum the minute Lily's magic started to blossom. Everyone thinks that it was Lil's magic that wrecked everything with her sister, but strictly between you and I, Prongslet, I'll tell you it was me. I wrecked it all. Before your mum and I got together, Lil and Petunia they were  _trying_ to have some sort of relationship, even if it was just very vague Christmas cards once a year accompanied by some cheap, noncommittal gift that at least had them on speaking terms. But then the war was starting to turn, Voldemort was gaining followers rapidly and well, your mum, ever practical as she was...she knew we might not survive. So, one night, she took me to meet her parents. She wanted one night, one final family dinner with them just in case," he swallowed thickly.

"Just in case it was her last," Harry finished, looking up at his father with watery green eyes.

"Yeah, Prongslet, in case it was her last. So, we went. Of course I was going to go. Your mum, oh your mum was magic. She had me wrapped around her little finger and it was partly because she was so independent. Your mother didn't need me, she wanted me. I was a  _choice_ and you can bet your last galleon that she had a hell of a lot better prospects than James Potter but that never mattered to Lily. She chose me. She was  _proud_ of me and that woman never asked anything of me other than to love her every day as if it were our last," he sniffled, pressing the heel of his hands against his eyes to stop the tears. He didn't want to cry in front of his son. He'd experienced so much heartache, so much, and so young, but he felt the need to apologize. He felt so responsible for all he had endured.

"She never asked me for anything, so when she came to me and said so sweetly 'James, darling-' she only called me darling when she was nervous, you know, Padfoot teased her constantly for it. 'James, darling, I'd like you to come have dinner with me and mine.' Well, I was dressed in my finest that night, James Fleamont Potter even managed, by the grace of the Gods to have presentable hair that night. I met your gran and grandpa for the first time, they were lovely people, they would have adored you, Prongslet but they died a few months before you were born. Car crash, I guess that's where Petunia got the idea," he laughed bitterly, his scorn for Petunia seeming to drive back the tears.

"The dinner was lovely, your mum had a bit of wine and kept making googly eyes at me, bless her. Then Petunia came, with Vernon and the night quickly took a nosedive and turned to pure shite. Vernon kept making snide remarks as your mum and I had to skirt around what we did for a living, Petunia kept egging him on, knowing we couldn't be one hundred percent truthful so Vernon finally came to the conclusion that I was a drunk and your mum was just in it for the money. Your poor mum, she was devastated. Vernon went to the loo, your gran and grandpa went to the living room to put on some music thinking it would calm everyone down, and your mum practically dragged Petunia into the kitchen. I've never told anyone this," he glanced over at Harry, nodding softly, knowing he had to continue.

"I was headed out back to the garden. I just...needed some air and I had to pass the kitchen to get there...and I'll never forget what I heard as I passed."

 _"I just wanted_ _one_ _night, Tuney, one! One night with my husband, with mum and dad, one night with you! But you've gone and wrecked it all!" Lily's voice was dropped down to a whisper but James knew his wife all too well. Knowing Lily Potter, her face was nearly as red as her hair and her hands were balled into tight fists at her side._

_He knew he shouldn't be listening in but something had his feet glued to the spot. He waited, listening to the exasperated sigh leave Petunia. He didn't know her very well but he imagined that her arms were crossed tightly over her chest as she looked down her nose at her sister._

_"You always were so dramatic," Petunia huffed._

_"It isn't dramatics, you just don't understand what I'm going through on my end. I'm pregnant in the middle of a war and I just..." Lily's voice faltered and James had to resist the urge to barge into the kitchen, resist the urge to be the most impolite guest and break up their very private moment so he could hug his wife and remind her that he promised to keep her safe. His hand was hovering over the door knob when Petunia's words bit into his very soul._

_"Well maybe if you hadn't gone and let a worthless_ _nigger_ _stuff you up the duff, this evening would have been more enjoyable, hm?"_

 _The kitchen was a silent graveyard "How dare you, you miserable bitch. Don't you_ _dare_ _to speak of James that way, don't you dare to speak of_ _anyone_ _that way." Lily's hiss was as venomous and deadly, the windows in the kitchen rattling in their frames dangerously close to breaking._

 _"You are a racist, ridiculous, repugnant wretch. I'm sorry that I ever tried to reconcile with you. I can clearly see this was all mistake on my part. Goodbye, Petunia, and thank your lucky stars that it is_ _highly_ _illegal for me to hex you six ways to Sunday like I really want to right now." Lily gasped when she walked out of the kitchen and straight into James. She looked at him with nothing but love and adoration in her eyes, running a comforting, gentle hand down his arm until she took her hand in his and Disapperated them back to Godric's Hollow._

"All things considered, as a black man, I led a pretty privileged life growing up in the Wizarding world....I had....I had never experienced racism before until that night. I never grew up ashamed of my skin colour. I never thought anything of it until that night, until tonight...'cause I can't help thinking that maybe...just maybe if I had been white, you wouldn't be here right now. Maybe they would have treated you better..."James sighed, carding his fingers through his hair, refusing to meet Harry's gaze.

"I'm proud of who I am, Dad," Harry whispered, reaching forward to grab his father's hand, dark skin against dark skin.

"No, you aren't, but I am  _damn_ proud that it doesn't have shite to do with your skin colour. You're ashamed of who you are, but it's because everyone expects you to save the world when you know you can't even protect yourself. You haven't learned yet that you've gotta let the right people in, people who can help save you. You have to remember that it was mine and your mum's choice to die for you, that you aren't a burden because we died for you. You're just loved. You are so loved, Prongslet and when people love you they will walk to the ends of the earth for you, walk through fire, go through Hell and back again, and every other tired cliche but it's the  _truth._ Love is so fucking powerful, Prongslet." James looked off into the distance, at something far beyond Harry but when he turned around, the younger of the two didn't see a thing. There was nothing but eerie white train station all around them.

"They told me I would get to tell you one thing before I sent you back and in true Prongs fashion, I've managed to spend most of our time rambling my arse off," he chuckled, shaking a mass of black curls.

"Back? Back where?"

"You have to go back, Prongslet." James was standing suddenly, pulling Harry to his feet. He cursed under his breath when he saw the panic and fear in Harry's eyes, Lily's eyes. He pulled his son close and pet his hair tenderly.

"Not back to the Dursley's, your magic took care of that bit," a smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth as he leaned in close to Harry's ear, chuckling "Here's my one thing, Prongslet, listen close. When you finally realized you got exactly what you wished for; you have mine and your mother's blessing."

With those final words, James became less and less corporeal until he faded into nothingness. Helplessly, Harry looked around as the fuzzy white clarity of the empty Kings Cross station became dimmer as the seconds slipped by until he was plunged into darkness and the warmth of his father's embrace melted away into a searing, inescapable pain.

\-------------------------------------------

"Potter." In the tiniest bedroom of number 4 Privet Drive, Draco Malfoy stood rigid and open mouthed as he stated at the bloody, battered, broken body of Harry Potter. Cool grey eyes took in the cramped, bare surroundings of the room and felt a lump settle square in the middle of his throat as he leaned down, his fingers feeling around the bruised skin of Potter's neck. Draco swore under his breath, feeling around incessantly. He'd dabble in Necromancy -the manor had books on it, he just _knew_ it- and bring the git back from the dead just to kill him all over again if he had the audacity to die on him. He pressed down hard against Potter's jugular, swearing softly. It took several moments until he felt it.

A pulse.

He sighed, a nervous, airy laugh shaking its way out of him. He reveled in the feeling of the weak pulse against his fingertips.

The stupid git was alive, thank Circe.

The faintest of smiles graced his face as he, and Harry Potter -the bane of his existence and love of his life- slowly faded into nothingness with a crackle of errant magic.


	2. Jumbled Pieces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco and Narcissa have a long night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To my beta reader Redpanther29 who helps keep me sane and to Quicksilvermaid for all the help in developing this chapter. You guys rock! <3

The most terrifying thing about Malfoy Manor were the windows. There were so many of them, too many of them, or at least more than any sane person would bother counting. It was unnerving. When there was nothing to come through them but sunshine, moonlight, or a pleasant breeze, they were quite appreciated. Yet, when lightning illuminated every inch of the manor in sporadic flashes and nothing could be heard over the cacophony of rain pelting against glass it was terrifying. In truth, Draco had spent a fair part of his life petrified by it. The thunder was enough to rattle the widows in their pane and the lightning cast shadows that had him fleeing from his bed from the moment he'd learned how to walk.

At least until he was six. That was when his father had deemed he was old enough to take care of "things that went bump in the night" all by his lonesome. Childish nonsense such as being afraid of thunderstorms was not tolerated by his father. Draco learned quickly to take his fears and put them in far removed corners of his mind. He couldn't go running into his parent's bedroom anymore like an infant. 

Draco had not stepped foot into his parent's bedroom since the tender age of six. It had been a decade. That was the first tell tale sign for Narcissa that something was terribly wrong.

He rapped at her door, quick and sharp, his magic crackling so fiercely she could feel it through the thick mahogany. The frenzied, prickling static feel of it absently made her think of a frightened mare. She threw on a robe instantly, tucking her wand into one of the pockets. She opened the door and nearly fell against the frame, "Draco," her hand flew to her chest, heart hammering hard against her flesh as if it were trying to escape.

"What's happened to you?" cupping his face with her hands, her soft blue eyes roamed over every inch of him, inspecting, analyzing . The blood smeared across his arms, his chest, was dried already. He seemed well off enough albeit calm, an eerie sort of calm she knew -from far too much experience- was hiding a bubbling cauldron of below.

"What's happened to you?" she repeated, her words airy and tight in her chest. She willed her heartbeat to stop its  frenzied thrumming but fruitless. Every mother dreaded the moments were they had no idea how to help their aching child. Was he in trouble? In danger? Hurt? She stared at him imploringly, gripping his arms and giving him the gentlest of shakes as if to jostle his focus back into place. He blinked, chest heaving, and looked at her as if he were seeing her for the first time.

"We've a situation," there were nearly a dozen unasked questions laced between each word.

"What kind of situation?"

"Grab as many healing potions as you can, as many as you have."

"What kind of a situation?" Narcissa took a calming breath and stood a little straighter. She would not be bested by the strange energy of the moment. She adamantly refused to allow herself to be whipped into a panic. She was still a Black at heart. The women of her family did not succumb to fear. Fear was for the faint of heart. "Answer me," she demanded though there was warmth hidden behind her tone. She jerked his chin upward a tad harder than necessary until their eyes met.

He finally snapped into focus, looking at her with a scowl she assumed he reserved for his classmates. "Mother, there isn't  _time_ ," he grumbled, shrugging out of her grasp and reiterating his need for potions, as many as she had. His eyes were unspeakably bright in the moonlight, glittering with determination and something else she couldn't quite detect. Despite his face being twisted up in a matter most foul, she noticed a stray tear trickling down his face. "Mother,  _please._ " She had not seen Draco cry since he was six, Lucius had made sure of it. The desperation in his voice made her heart wrench something awful.

Her son did not beg.

Something terrible had happened. Fear threatened to claw at her. It was feverish, like the legs of a spider furiously preserving its prey but she shoved it aside, squared her shoulders, and reminded herself that she was a mother. Her son needed her and she was made of stronger stock. Draco needed her strength and she had sworn on the day he was born he would never go without. With a tight nod, she rushed to her bathroom and knelt to retrieve a large wooden box from beneath the sink. Potions vials rattled together as she pulled it close against her chest.

"My room," was all Draco managed before rushing off ahead of her.

Nothing could have prepared her for the sight she walked in on. In the mildest of terms, the night had, by all accounts, taken an unexpected turn. She hadn't expected to be woken in the middle of the night by her son barging into her room. She hadn't expected to see him covered in blood either. But walking in on a battered and bloody Harry Potter lying limply in her son's bed gave Narcissa Malfoy permission to believe that all Seven Hell's had broken loose under her roof. She blanched at the mere sight of him. Were it not for his lightning bolt scar on full display, she would have been in staunch denial that it was even him. But there was no mistaking it. He was in Malfoy Manor, wheezing deeply, and barely clinging to life by the looks of it. Draco looked positively beside himself.

There was no time for her to be as flummoxed as she felt.

There was no time for questions.

She had to act.

"Bipsy!" the House Elf appeared with a crack, curtsying deeply.

"Mistress Malfoy be needing Bipsy?"

"Listen and listen carefully: yarrow, burdock root, and echinacea, boil it in a large pot and bring it to me," she whirled around to face her son "Draco, flannels, as many as you can find." They both left without another word as she cast every diagnostic charm she knew, her face going red with fury as she gazed upon the bruises that littered his rich dark skin, his face nearly beaten beyond recognition. Who could do this to a  _child?_ Much less the  _Saviour_ of the wizarding world?

_Broken nose, busted lip, and a mild concussion._

_Four cracked ribs_

_Blood loss_

_Fractured jaw_

_Magical exhaustion_

_Malnutrition_

_Internal bleeding_

"Muggles," it was the only thing that made a fraction of sense. Only muggles would indulge in something so barbaric. Delicate pink lips pulled back in a savage sneer, a lingering suspicion consuming Narcissa like storm clouds over a bleak grey sky. She rested the tip of her wand against Harry's heart, knowing but needing the confirmation. 

"Tempus mortis," she all but growled.

Her knuckles turned nearly white as freshly fallen snow as a small light flickered over the boy before forming, in glowing green script 2:26 am.

The boy had died.

Tears were streaming down her cheeks and she did nothing to stop him. He was just a boy. Somewhere in Godric's Hollow, Lily and James Potter were rolling in their graves over what had happened to their boy. "You're safe now, pet," she soothed gently, crouching down at his bedside and flicking open her potions stores. She was no professional Healer, but there was no time for coercing one of the St.Mungo's staff: too little time, too many questions, too much left to loose lips. Her fingers moved deftly over potion after potion, her wand nearly an extension of her hand as she worked. The saviour of their world would not be dying again on her watch, she would make damn sure of it.

"Flannels," Draco sat them in his mother's lap as she instructed and sunk quietly into the chair Narcissa had hastily conjured for him. He looked half mad with worry. Draco had been not-so-quietly obsessed with the Potter boy since the day they'd met in Madam Malkin's at the tender age of eleven. Narcissa got a letter so long winded and full of emotion it may as well have been a Howler when Potter had rejected Draco's attempt at friendship. She'd received even more letters over the years that were more about "Saint Potter" than they were about her only child's welfare. She found the entire thing dreadfully amusing albeit a bit redundant, but mother that she was, she endured the petty squabbles and ventings of her boy so quickly becoming a hormone addled teenager. It wasn't until his fourth year, when the TriWizard Tournament had taken place, when the Dark Lord had returned, that Narcissa realized -perhaps before Draco himself even did- that the feelings he felt for  Potter were the makings of a crush.

It wasn't the ideal way for her to discover her son's sexuality, but she imagined that most parents knew before their child knew anyhow. Or, at least, loving and accepting parents always knew.

 _"How dare Potter be so bloody handsome?"_ The confession had come during one of their many nights dancing in the grand ballroom over Christmas Break. A love of dancing, it was something they had always shared together, something age nor even Lucius had been able to rip apart from them. The scowl that had marred his face as the question hung between them had done nothing but make her smile and pat him sympathetically.

 _"Because life can be so unspeakably cruel, pet,"_ she had reminded him.

Life can be unspeakably cruel, truer words, she was certain she had never spoken. Life had been unspeakably, unimaginably cruel to Harry. She'd managed to stop the internal bleeding, mend his lip, nose, and fixed his ribs and jaw as best she could but Healing magic was not her area of expertise. There was no telling how long he'd be bed ridden with her as a Healer, but he would survive the night. That much was certain and thankfully, he would remain in a magically induced coma until his magic replenished itself naturally. No spell or potion could do that for him. His jaw was her biggest concern for the moment but an overworked Healer was the last thing the boy needed and Narcissa was nowhere near certified. The best thing for both of them would be rest until she could see to his care more properly.

Sighing, she sat back on her haunches, feeling her magic settling around her wearily like the foundation of an old, creaky house. The front stoop of Number 12 Grimmauld Place flashed in her mind for the briefest of moments before her exhaustion waved it away dismissively. The evening was dark enough without thinking of that hell hole. She turned to the pot Bipsy had brought nearly an hour ago. She'd put a statis charm on it to keep it the perfect temperature while she worked, the longer the herbs steeped the better. Bipsy had to be kicked out due to her hysterics once she'd realized just who was lying in Draco's bed.

"Stir these in," she handed three vials to Draco and watched him slide out of the chair to do as he was bid. He poured one vial in after another, watching as the surface changed from a amber to an off colour sewage green, to the color of moss. Narcissa had never seen her son look so lost as he did now.

Two lost little boys were in her care looking for guidance. She watched as Draco's mechanical stirring brought the concoction to a vibrant spring green, its scent herbaceous with a hint of citrus. "We need to bring Severus to the Manor. He needs potions I can't provide him with, this won't be eno-"

"No."

Narcissa's eyebrow quirked upward into her bangs. If it hadn't sounded so forceful, she would have sworn Draco hadn't spoken at all.

"Draco, he needs-"

"No, mother."

"Draco Lucius Malfoy," her tone brokered no room for argument.

Draco threw the spoon he'd been stirring  with down into the pot, pointing an accusing finger at Harry's lifeless form. "He  _saw_  him!" the sob that erupted from his throat startled them both but it seemed the moment it came, Draco was helpless to stop it. He  was up in an instant, pacing the floor as he carded his fingers through his hair.

"That arrogant, nosy,  _stupid_ prat had been spying on me  _all year_. He saw, I know he saw! I know it, Mother! You saved him, good on you for it but how do you think he's going to feel when he wakes up  _here?_ " his voice was high and shrill, chest heaving as he struggled to get hold himself together. Every lesson he'd ever received about decorum and keeping a cool head in times of crisis seemed to have flown out one of the Manor's many windows.

"He saw Severus killing Dumbledore...he's going to wake up in Malfoy Manor...he's going to be hurt and scared," his voice cracked, making him scowl, but it did little else to calm his emotions that were quickly bordering on hysterics.

"Something brought me to him, something pushed us together! He's  _my_ responsibility,"Narcissa watched as Draco sank to his knees, sobbing into his hands.

"He's mine," he sounded absolutely miserable but the conviction in his voice made Narcissa's heart wrench.

Draco took a deep, shuddering breath and rose to his feet, coming over to her and taking one of the flannels out of the pot. He wrung it out slightly before creeping over to the bed and gingerly wiping the liquid over Harry's face."I won't have him wake up to the face of a murder. He's mine...I have to protect him," it was barely a whisper but Narcissa heard it all the same. The room was abnormally silent in the wake of her revelation.

How could she have been so blind?

How could she not have seen it before?

This was no silly school yard crush...

Her son was  _in love_.

"Oh Draco," Narcissa felt a great heaviness leaching into her limbs as she leaned forward on stiff knees to cradle her son's head against her chest "as you are mine," she whispered fiercely. The path of this realization was an unknown road, but seeing her son, wiping blood from the saviour's brow made one thing clear- she would protect them _both_ , whatever may come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would just like to thank my beta reader Redpanther29 yet again for keeping me sane while writing this chapter and helping me make it everything that it is. His insight is so valuable to me and his keen eye helps me stay at the top of my game. I'd also like to thank Quicksilvermaid for helping me out with this chapter by helping me really get into my groove with Narcissa. She's not a character that I write for often but she is going to play a MAJOR role in this story so I was really nervous about her debut within the story. I wanted to show her devotion to family, to Draco in particular, her vulnerability (though she tries to hide it), and the fierceness of a mother's love. I hope I did a decent job, if not, I can only build from here.
> 
> Also, I purposefully wanted this chapter to feel a little disjointed, chaotic, and off kilter because that's precisely how Draco and Narcissa both feel for drastically different reasons.
> 
> *tempus mortis - death time


	3. Soft Pieces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco does what Draco does best...complain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my beta-reader Redpanther29 is the best, most beautiful, most extraordinary human to have ever lived. He doesn't even ship Drarry and he still beta reads for me. That's love. Thanks babes, I love you so much.

If there were an award for, say,  _Best Scowl at Harry Potter_ , Draco was sure it would be sitting on his mantle. Draco had a rather long list of all the reasons he despised Potter, he'd been quite thorough about it. One of the things at the top of the list was the insufferable git's hair.

Harry Potter's hair was outside of Draco's perception of suspended belief.

He refused to believe that something that bushy, wild, and unkempt could be anything but a rats nest.

It was not soft.

He refused to believe it.

Draco was of the mind that if he were to ever try and touch it, that his hand would surely get lost within its confines and most likely be lopped off by errant curls coiled too tightly against his delicate wrist.

He shouldn't want to touch it so badly. That, of course, is where the scowl came in. Of course, stupid Potty would somehow manage to put a stranglehold on Draco's resolve and actually reduce him to wanting to make a vain attempt to card his fingers through locks so unruly he feared loss of limb. The sheer notion of it was near reprehensible.

Yet...

He finally had the opportunity now.

The moment the first rays of sunshine had illuminated the halls of Malfoy Manor, his mother had bathed and dressed in preparation for a trip to Spinster's End. Since Draco had so adamantly refused the man's direct involvement in the Gryffindor's healing, his mother took it upon herself to fetch what was needed from Severus. It had been a hellish night for the both of them yet it didn't seem to matter. Leave it to Narcissa Malfoy nee Black to have her entire life upended in the middle of the night and wake up looking as though she were worth more than every single galleon in her vault. She had dressed in a soft orange robe that brought out the colour of her eyes with shocking clarity, the smell of sandalwood and rose replacing the stench of blood, sweat, and potions. When Draco had woken to her sparkling eyes, devoid of any bags or wrinkles, he'd had to reach out and touch Potter's foot just to ensure he was still there and the entire thing hadn't been some sort of gruesome nightmare. For all the reasons Draco Malfoy loved his mother -and there were a myriad of reasons- her sheer tenacity had to be within the top three.

His mother truly amazed him.

She'd made sure he showered and ate a light breakfast and that she'd brewed more herbs for Potter's bruises before she disapparated with a kiss to Draco's forehead and a promise to be back soon.

Bipsy still couldn't look at Potter without bawling her eyes out. So his care had been left solely to Draco in his mother's absence. Curiosity burned like an endless flame in the pit of his stomach. All he had to do was reach out and touch it. Potter had the audacity to make Draco fall for him, even though they could be nothing but enemies, the least the prat could do was have terrible hair.

Draco needed Potter to have horrendous, hellish, haphazard hair.

It was the absolute least Potter could do for making Draco fall -much to his dismay- hopelessly in love with the one person who would never love him back.

"You're a right bloody prat, you know that?" Draco sneered. He was not particularly in the mood to delve into disgusting thoughts about love and  _feelings_. Feeling anything other than hatred for the other boy would be setting himself up for nothing but disappointment. Harry Potter was unobtainable. Draco had made a list about that too and had been scathingly thorough in listing all the reasons why he refused to think on the matter.

Potter was straight, first and foremost. Or, at least Draco assumed so, what with the way he practically slobbered over Cho Chang and the Weaslette.

Potter hated him. Draco knew that from the moment he denied his hand when they were eleven. 

Even if Potter  _didn't_ hate him, he was the wizarding world's Golden Boy. There were things expected of him. He would never disappoint everyone by lowering himself to be with a Death Eater. Odds were, once the war was over, Potter would wind up marrying the Weaslette.

Potter would marry the Weaslette.

A voice that sounded suspiciously like his father had drilled that one simple fact into Draco's head for years. It was the only thing that seemed to stop him from making an utter fool of himself. He had to remember that there was no happy ending for him. Death Eaters who lost wars and conspired to kill Headmasters did not get happy endings.

Potter would marry the Weaslette.

Everyone knew the Mudblood would lower her standards enough to marry the Weasel.

By marriage, Potter's best friends would become his brother and sister, the Golden Trio officially and forever inseparable.

Potter would marry the Weaslette. Most likely, they would wed young, right after leaving Hogwarts with the asinine notion of fixing his ancestral home in Godric's Hollow because the wizarding world would expect him to want to live his life in the home his parents never got the chance to raise him in.

Potter would marry the Weaslette and become an Auror, possibly without even having to go through the proper training; he will have defeated the darkest wizard of their era, he will have survived, and the world would still need saving. What better qualifications would he need?

Potter would marry the Weaslette and have at least three children before he's even thirty, partly because the Weaslette is freakishly fertile but mostly because it's expected of him. He will have survived and the pressure to  _do_ something with his life, to move on, to fall in line would be heaped upon his shoulders.

Potter would marry the Weaslette and live a boring, discontented, half-life that will make absolutely no sense to him. A miserable life that makes absolutely no sense to Draco Malfoy. But to the rest of the wizarding world, from the outside looking in, Potter's life would be a fairy tale. It would be the happy ending that everyone wished for after the war, the happy ending so many would hope to obtain. And if Harry Potter could have it...so could they.

Harry Potter would marry the Weaslette and suffer through his unhappily-ever-after because the wizarding world will look at his adoring wife, precious babes, and white picket fence, and see the standard they should aspire to.

The Boy-Who-Lived would continue to be the boy who lived for everyone else.

It was what Potter had been doing since he was eleven.

It didn't matter that Draco loved him, had loved him, for years.

Nevermind that he would probably only marry the Weaslette to ensure that he didn't lose the ginger haired, freckle faced disgrace to wizard he called a best friend. Despicable blood-traitors though they may be; the Weasleys were still purebloods. If there was one pureblood trait that couldn't be extinguished no matter how far a family fell, it was that family was everything. Breaking the Weaslette's heart would cause a rift between Potter and his surrogate family that would be difficult, perhaps impossible to mend. No matter how unhappy it made him, Potter would stay.

Nevermind that the Potter home in Godric's Hollow was the pinnacle of Potter's trauma: the place where his parents were killed, his life as he barely knew it destroyed, and the place the Dark Lord had defiled by attempting to murder him. He would be interviewed by the  _Daily Prophet_ post-war. Reporters would gather like vultures circling half dead prey and pester him about where he and his "beautiful fiance" would live after their impending nuptials. Rita Skeeter no doubt would be the most eager for the tidbit, anxiously waiting to see if the atrocious Burrow would become the new stalking grounds for all things Potter. Their ravenous, expectant gazes would bore into him and Potter would be mumbling "Godric's Hollow" before he realized that living there would be like living under the cloak of a Dementor. Nevermind that living there would mean subjecting himself every day to the ghost of memories not quite forgotten.

Nevermind that he will undoubtedly be a wreck after the war because the wizarding world will be looking to him for normalcy. What's more normal than waiting for happy newlyweds to welcome their first bundle of joy into the world? As if babies will suddenly erase the blood shed, the death...the nightmares. The  _Prophet_ will pester and pick and claw at the issue until Potter delivers. Nevermind that Potter never got to be a kid before life expectations make him a father before he's even twenty.

Nevermind...

Scowling, Draco stirred the potions into the pot at his feet and stirred until it became the appropriate color, dunking the flannels in with more force than was necessary. He'd had his fill of depressing thoughts for the day. "Loving you is exceedingly detrimental to my health, you great git," the scowl on Draco's face only deepened as he set to rolling up his shirt sleeves before dunking his hands into the pot and wringing out a flannel.

"You're going to give me wrinkles and then who will want me?"

Silence.

"Precisely, no one will want me if you keep ruining my beautiful face. Between worrying about you every time you go dashing off into situations likely to get you killed like the moronic Gryffindor you are and scowling at you for being so bloody attractive, my skin will most likely never recover...I blame you," he slapped a wet flannel down on an unmarred piece of Potter's torso with a frown.

It just wasn't as entertaining snarking at Potter if the git couldn't snark back. Sighing in resignation, Draco took to quietly completing the task at hand, stroking Potter's face gently with the wet flannel. He hated the smell of the mixture, the deep herbaceous smell too reminiscent of the greenhouses of Hogwarts for his liking, but they seemed to be helping. All ready the bruises on Potter's face weren't nearly as bad as they'd been when they'd first arrived at the Manor. Draco guessed that in another treatment or so, the markings would be gone completely. He worked in a relatively passive calm for nearly ten minutes until the darkened edge of a bruise at the top of Potter's pyjama bottoms caught his eye. His breath hitched in his throat. It was clear the bruise expanded downward.

Should he check it?

It would mean removing the other boys pants. The rational part of him told him it was of the utmost importance that he inspect the area. He was attempting to heal him, after all. Still, the sheer thought of it felt incredibly invasive.

The irrational part of him was reacting in a way that was most unbefitting of a Malfoy. Of all the ways he'd dreamt of undressing Harry Potter, no scenario had started out quite like this.

"It's purely medical," he reminded himself quietly. For whatever the reason, the Boy-Who-Temporarily-Lived-At-Malfoy-Manor was in his care and needed to be treated to the fullest extent of his capabilities. He made a soft, strained noise in the back of his throat, nimble fingers crooking beneath the threadbare fabric. He tried to ignore the blush he could feel creeping over his face as he slowly tugged the pants down to rest at the boy's knees. Breathing slowly and opening his eyes which had clenched shut without him realizing, he looked down and blanched immediately.

Along Potter's thighs were dark, angry bruises that spread across both his thighs. From what Draco could tell, it looked as though some heavy object had landed on top of him. A tear slid down Draco's cheek, followed by another, then another as he dutifully wiped down Potter's thighs. He didn't want to think about how the bruises had gotten there, he just wanted to make them go away. He wanted to heal them. Working diligently, he waved a hand over Potter and removed the pyjama bottoms entirely, a pair of shorts taking their place, giving Draco unfettered access to the area in need of healing.

The rare odd bits of wandless magic Draco could do all centered around vanity, he never once imagined he'd be able to use it to help before. To do something useful.

When he'd wiped Harry's thighs down thoroughly, he grabbed two flannels out of the pot and folded them up, placing one on each thigh before he sat back in his chair. He willed the tears to stop.

How dare Potter reduce him to such a state?

Make him  _care_ so much?

"What did those horrid muggles do to you, Scarhead?" Draco whispered, reaching out against his better judgement and stroking a trembling finger over a loose curl sitting atop Potter's dark toffee coloured face. His hair was soft, of course it was, because life was grossly unfair. That gentle touch was enough to throw caution to the wind. Draco leaned closer and carded his fingers through Potter's thick curls, marveling at the feel of it between his fingers. It was softer than he would have ever imagined on a good day, coarser than his by leaps and bounds but soft and thick, like a heavy warm sweater. Up close and personal, and with the sun shining on his dark, chiseled face, Draco realized that Potter's hair wasn't black like he'd always thought it to be. It was a deep, rich brown, so overlapped that it simply looked black but upon closer inspection he noticed that there were striking strands of auburn and a coppery-red that couldn't be seen unless you were nearly on top of him as Draco happened to be. It was remarkably beautiful and a true pity that Draco didn't get to inspect it further.

Vibrant green eyes snapping open were the last thing Draco saw before a violent whip of magic sent him careening into the opposite wall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, nothing like a good cliffhanger to end a story! Harry is awake and that means interesting things for the next chapter! Special thanks again to my beautiful bb Redpanther29 for beta reading, as well as special thanks to Quicksilvermaid for inspiration for this chapter. We had a discussion about a fic they wanted to start about Harry Post war and I really vibed with that conversation and wanted to highlight it in Draco's musings of Harry's potential future. This chapter was all about tenderness, more specifically, getting to see Draco's softer side, the tenderness for Harry that he's never gotten to indulge in. I have this headcanon that because of his upbringing Draco doesn't really know how to be a tender, loving person, but Harry brings about a side of him that even he doesn't fully understand. So he snarks and gripes and talks shit and completely denies his feelings but it doesn't change the fact that when it comes to Harry there's a sweetness to him that he can't escape.


	4. Unexpected Pieces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Narcissa returns with potions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: There is a minor panic attack detailed in this chapter, if this would be triggering for you, please refrain from reading the first two paragraphs after the page break.

The moment Potter opened his eyes, his magic sprung to life and brought new meaning to the term ‘electrifying.’ Lightning seemed to be encoded in his DNA. Draco half wondered if that’s why Potter’s famous scar took the shape that it did. His magic was fierce, unyielding, and wild, like a powerful storm threatening to swallow Draco where he stood as the unbowing force kept him as far away from as possible. The air was thick with it. The unrelenting crackling thrummed against his ears like a deafening drum beat. _  Good grief.Wonderful time for the Golden Boy to have a cataclysmic meltdown. _

 

The scarheaded nuisance was literally going to be the death of him.Pinned against the wall by the maelstrom of Potter’s magic, Draco wasn’t sure whether he should be absolutely furious or incredibly turned on...he landed somewhere betwixt the two. Sometimes it killed him how much Potter turned him on. Life was grossly unfair. Of all the ways he’d imagined dying since his father had reclaimed his position among the Death Eater ranks- strangulation from Harry bloody Potter’s magic hadn’t been in the running.

 

“Potter!” Draco’s vocal chords burned raw from the sheer force of screams that died on the waves of unadulterated magic.

Potter’s magic was alive.

 

Pulsating. Beating. Frantic. Like butterflies trapped behind glass cages, bumping and crashing in a fluttered frenzy for freedom.

 

A shiver rolled down Draco’s spine. He could  _ see  _ Potter’s magic. Gossamer blue wisps of energy pulsated through the room like lightning strikes, creating a barrier between the two of them. It was something Draco had only ever read about. Tangible magic energy. He had no idea it was actually possible, that he’d see it in his lifetime. His heartbeat quickened as he stared at the display in open mouthed fascination. It was dangerously enchanting. Draco was sure some part of him should be cursing Potter for filling him with such unbridled desire but he simply couldn’t manage it. He was filled with a wanting that felt drastically inappropriate given the circumstances.

 

Breathing heavily, Draco managed to hoist himself to his feet with an undignified grunt. He was a Malfoy. He refused to be cowed, especially by the likes of Potter. Skin prickling, he reached out a quivering, tentative hand. Every movement of his body felt laden, lethargic, and detached from himself. He schooled his face into a mask of bored indifference and pushed forward anyhow. His fingertip made contact with the barrier and he instantly regretted it, a shockwave burning its way over his skin. “Prat!” he screamed at Potter, glowering fiercely. He knew Potter couldn’t hear him so he hoped the scowl on his face was his absolute best.

 

He’d survived getting his dark mark, he’d survived the cruciatus curse, he refused to be bested by Potter.

 

Squaring his shoulder and gritting his teeth, Draco forced his feet to move forward. Potter’s magic vibrated against his skin, encompassing him, wrapping him up in a blanket made of thorns of lightning. He did his best to ignore the searing pain radiating across his flesh with every step. It bloody well hurt but he’d be damned if he let it show.

 

It felt like hours before he reached Potter’s bedside, panting ever so slightly through his nose, trying perhaps in vain to hide just how much it had taken out of him to cross the room. He brought himself down to his knees, stormy grey eyes boring into sharp green ones, unblinking and stubborn as Draco tenderly peeled the flannels away from Potter’s flesh and slipped them back into the pot, coating them in the still warm potion. Potter’s magic seemed to be in overdrive, the lightning strikes of errant magic more visible in their close proximity. Draco felt strangled by it and he longed to grimace, to wince, to show just how deeply the pain of it burrowed beneath his skin but he refused to allow his muscles to contort. He wouldn’t give Potter the satisfaction. He dipped his hands back in the pot, wrung out a flannel, and slowly, tenderly, began to wipe over the bruises, eyes never leaving Potter.

 

The magic screeched to a halt and Draco took what felt like his first breath in minutes.

 

Magic hummed around Potter’s body like the steady warmth of a well kept fire. “Are you quite finished now?” Draco drawled, a delicate blonde eyebrow arching upward as he sat back on his haunches, stirring the other flannels inside the pot idly.

 

Thick brows furrowed together, green eyes narrowing into fine slits. From the rigid way he laid upon the bed, Draco noted Potter’s inability to move.His mother must have cast Immobulus on the boy to prevent him from harming himself should he wake up. It was a relief though Draco was loath to admit it. At least he knew the idiot couldn’t get up and attack him, not that he needed to, clearly.

 

“Don’t look at me in that tone of face, Potter,” Draco snapped, grabbing another flannel to place it over the bruise on Potter’s forehead, his scowl having no problem returning to his face now that they were on something close to equal footing.

 

Potter’s expression went completely deadpan for a moment, his lips barely moving for a fraction of a second. His jaw, which still wasn’t fully healed, had to be killing him. Both of them seemed to reach the same conclusion at nearly the same time.

 

Potter wouldn’t be able to talk.

 

A satisfied smirk spread easily over Draco’s face as Potter rolled his eyes. He had no intention of letting an inability to speak stop the argument brewing between them from bubbling over. A good row was the least Potter could do for invading the privacy of Draco’s home, for making him worry, and for having insufferably soft hair. He reasoned he was only getting what he was due by egging him on. Goading Potter into an argument had always been something Draco was exceptional at. As if on cue, Potter exhaled sharply from his nose, nostrils flaring with a great indignant huff that put Draco in the mind of an ornery bull ready to gored anything that crossed his path.   

 

“Manners, Potter. Is this the thanks I get for saving your life?” Really his mother had saved his life but Potter certainly didn’t need to know that. He watched Potter’s brows knit together in consternation and felt triumphant. Served the dolt right, after all.

 

Draco heaved a heavy, dramatic sigh as if he were beyond put out. “Can’t be helped, I suppose, ingrate that you are. I don’t know why I’d ever fix my mind to think otherwise.”

 

Potter’s eyes darkened considerably and Draco watched as Potter clenched his hands into tight fists, a jolt of magic crackling around them as quick as a flash. It made the baby fine hairs on Draco’s arm stand at attention. Even without the twisted up scowl, Draco still knew  _ that  _ look. Potter wanted to hit him.

 

“Don’t be so _  plebeian _ , Potter, not all problems need to be solved with one’s fists.”

 

Potter’s head swiveled slowly on the pillow as he fixed Draco with an exceedingly pointed glare, one eyebrow lifting into his tangle of raven curls. Everything on his face read  _ “as if you’re above using your fists, Malfoy _ ,” as clear as day. It was like Draco could practically hear the annoying git inside of his head. When Draco’s quick wit died on his tongue, Potter let out a short snort through his nose, clearly feeling cocky and triumphant as the insufferable as was wont to do. Draco simply scowled in response causing Potter to quirk his brow at him again. Since when could Potter lift one brow at a time, anyhow? That was supposed to be  _ Draco’s  _ signature move.

 

They both remained silent for a long moment, green eyes boring into grey nearly without blinking. Finally Potter’s lips twitched, as if he wanted to pull a face but couldn’t quite manage it with his partially healed jaw. Something about the gesture creeped under Draco’s skin and set up camp. Even without being able to speak Potter could still rile him up. It wasn’t fair! The git had him up more than half the night worrying by his bedside and...

 

“This is all your fault, Potter!” he snarled, emotions he’d much rather pretend didn’t exist coiling in his stomach. “ _ I  _ was perfectly comfortable in my bed when I landed in your little hovel out of nowhere.  _ Your  _ things landed in  _ my  _ home so why don’t you think on that next time you try to asphyxiate me with your bloody magic!” Draco stood up abruptly, kicking the pot of healing potion on the floor before storming out of the room.

 

The door slamming behind him as it separated him from Harry bloody Potter was the most satisfying sound he’d heard all day.

 

____________________________________________

 

Harry couldn’t get what Malfoy had said to him out of his head.  _ “This is all your fault, Potter. I was perfectly comfortable in my bed...your things landed in my home….I landed in your little hovel out of nowhere...your things landed in my home.”  _ How had he ended up at Malfoy Manor of all places? Harry kept turning it around in his head but no conclusion he came to made a lick of sense. He didn’t have much time to dwell on it before Mrs.Malfoy was at his bedside.

 

“You’re awake, Mr.Potter,” she seemed both relieved and surprised. He could only stare at her, blinking slowly like a cat. He hated this. He wanted to yell at her for casting Immobulus on him. It brought up too many painful memories. It made him think of Dumbledore. Dumbledore up on the Astronomy Tower with Malfoy’s wand pointed at his chest, the thundering of footfalls on the tower steps, the screaming from down below. Harry screwed his eyes shut, panting erratically through his nose as image after image assaulted his mind. He couldn’t stop picturing it. He couldn’t stop his heart from feeling like it would burst through his chest. Couldn’t stop picture it. Snape striding up to Dumbledore, eyes black and dead and cold, his wand at the ready. Avada Kedavra. And green...so much green. Then falling...falling...falling...Bill mangled face...the footsteps on the tower stairs. Blinding green light. Snape...murderer.

 

“Harry, Harry, shh,” a gentle hand rested against his face. Harry snapped his eyes open to look curiously into the warm, steely blue eyes of Mrs.Malfoy. She looked different than the last time Harry remembered seeing her. Softer, somehow with her so close to him. She carded her fingers through his hair until he felt his breathing become slow and shallow.

 

“That’s a good boy,” Mrs.Malfoy cooed, her hand never leaving his hair “I know this must all be so confusing for you,” she murmured. Once she determined that his panic attack had dissipated she conjured a chair for herself and sat down at his bedside.

 

“We’re going to get this all sorted out but first we have to finish healing you up,” she pulled out her wand and Harry’s eyes immediately widened, everything in him wanting to move away but he couldn’t. He was helpless against anything she would do.

 

“Mr.Potter,” she placed a tender hand on his forearm and looked directly into his eyes “you have already died once. If I truly wanted to harm you, I would have suffocated you in the middle of the night with a pillow like a common Muggle and no one would have been the wiser. Instead, I have kept you in my home, kept my silence so that the  _ Prophet _  has no inkling that anything in your life is amiss, and have drained my personal potions stores to see to your medical needs, not to mention greatly depleted my own magical reserves to ensure you lived through the night. No one in this manor means you ill will. I am not, by any means, asking you to trust me. What I  _ am  _ asking is that you look at the facts and put your faith in that. I draw my wand merely to run a few diagnostic tests on you to check your progress. If you’d like, I will tell you what each test does before I run it.” She eyed him long and hard for a moment as if searching for something “If you consent to this, please blink twice for yes. If you’d rather I leave you to die, by all means, blink once for no.”

 

Harry thought back on his uncle Vernon, the way he’d charged at him, his intent to kill him so blatant and loud. His uncle had succeeded. Harry had  _ died _ . He could feel the weakness, the fatigue, settling into his bones...if someone truly wanted him dead it would take no effort whatsoever. Yet and still, he was alive. Sure, he was in a fuck load of pain, but Harry was somewhat used to that between all the bones he'd screwed up playing Qudditch and the fact that Voldemort tried to kill him every year since he was eleven. He imagined it would be as easy to kill him as it were to squash a bug beneath your boot. The Malfoy’s could have handed him over to Voldemort, they could have just killed him, they could have…

 

_ Blink. Blink. _

 

Mrs.Malfoy smiled at him, grabbing hold of her wand again “There’s a good lad, Mr.Potter, you are officially the wisest sixteen year old I’ve met to date,” she cast a backward glance to the door before leaning in close to whisper “we musn’t tell Draco of course. I’m sure he’d throw a Queen sized fit.”

 

Harry would have laughed if he could.

 

“Now, lets see about helping you feel better.” Harry watched as Mrs.Malfoy’s wand moved in grand flourishes over his body, his skin tingling at the feel of her magic. One moment he was glowing blue, the next moment yellow, the next moment white, the next moment black, and then blue again. As promised, Mrs.Malfoy told him every single test she ran before she did it and Harry watched in fascination while she worked. He could  _ feel  _ her magic ghosting over his body like a gentle hand running over his skin, like a fretful mother checking him for nicks, and cuts, and pains. Finally, she lowered her wand and fixed him with an unreadable expression. If Harry had to guess, he’d say she looked...perplexed? Concerned? Angry? Worried?

 

“I’m going to nullify the Immobulus so we can work on getting the Skele-Gro into your system to heal your jaw and a few fractures in your legs, then you’ll take your nutrient potions and your caloric doublers, those will help you get up to a more suitable weight and help to counterbalance the malnutrition, and then we’ll see about getting you some broth and rice to see if you can hold down any food. But first, Mr.Potter, you are going to remove the glamour which is, undoubtedly, hiding the full appearance of you scar,” she flicked her wand gently and Harry felt himself himself tense from head to toe.

 

“I’m sorry Mr.Potter, based on the magical signature of the glamour, you’ve kept this up for  _ years _ . It’s highly unheard of, how you aren’t dead six times over by this point is nothing short of a medical marvel,” she sighed softly, leaning forward and gently prying his fingers away from his palm to hold his hand.

 

“Mr.Potter...Harry, a witch or wizards magical core is more than some vague concept, it’s more than just something different in our blood than the average Muggle, your magic is a life force in and of itself and its tethered to your heart, to your brain. Harry, your magic has been depleted, if you don’t release this glamour and allow your magic to fully recover from this trauma, you’re running the risk of either stopping your own heart or putting undo damage on your brain functioning.”

 

Harry gaped at her. He was sure if his jaw weren’t in so much pain it would be hanging open. He had no idea his magic was a part of him in such a profound way. He didn’t know he had been putting his health at risk all this time. It wasn’t like he had ever intentionally  _ meant  _ to glamour his scar. He hadn’t found out he’d been doing it until he was a fifth year.  Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon had just complained about it a lot when he was growing up. They would sneer at him and remind him daily that his face was an unsightly atrocity to behold. As if his dark skin weren’t already enough of an eyesore, his scar was enough to make them want to vomit. Harry had grown up hating his scar, all those years of never knowing the truth about where it came from didn’t help. So, one morning, when Harry woke up to see his scar conveniently ‘shrunk’ and easy to hide beneath his fringe...well, Harry had counted as a win and went about business as usual. When he’d been given an assignment on glamours in Charms in his fifth year and he’d realized he’d most likely done a bit of accidental magic as a child, he’d been alarmed to know it was unusual for glamours to be worn long term. By then, he had enough on his plate with the entire wizarding world in an uproar over their denial that Voldemort was back. Then there’d been Umbridge...he figured what his scar really looked like was better kept his own little secret. Not even Hermione and Ron knew about the glamour.

 

“Harry,” Mrs.Malfoy called his name and she said it so sweetly, so quiet and thick with emotion that Harry’s could hear the whispers of his mother’s voice the night in the graveyard when Cedric had been killed. He turned to look at her and was caught off guard by the singular tear that trickled down her cheek.

 

“You have to take it off, for your health, pet,” she urged, giving his hand a small squeeze.

 

Numbly, Harry nodded, closing his eyes and breathing in deeply through his nose. He hadn’t done the glamour consciously so it felt odd, downright silly, consciously thinking about taking it off. He scrunched his eyes shut, thinking back to the way he remembered it looking when he was younger, feeling a ripple of magic washing over his forehead, over his cheek, down to his jaw. It tickled, almost, like something small and light crawling over his face. When he finally opened his eyes, Mrs.Malfoy’s stunned expression was enough to tell him it worked. Thankfully, she shook herself out of it quickly and administered his potions to him, rubbing his throat to help him swallow and whispering words of encouragement as he nearly gagged on the taste.

 

“There, there,” she murmured when he’d managed to get through the last of the nutrient potion which, in Harry’s opinion tasted like what he’d imagine troll arse to taste like. The only good thing out of it all was that the Skele-Gro seemed to work much faster when it was just mending bones instead of regrowing them. It still tasted like garbe though as far as he was concerned.

 

“Thanks,” he croaked as Mrs.Malfoy helped him sit up along the headboard. His throat felt like he’d swallowed sandpaper but at least the blinding pain radiating in his jaw was finally nothing more than a dull throb. Mrs.Malfoy assured him it would be right as ever by morning.

 

“You need to eat,” Mrs.Malfoy concluded, snapping her fingers. A house elf appeared and fell into a low curtsy.

 

“Mistress be needing Bipsy?”

 

“Yes, bring Mr.Potter a bowl of warm chicken broth with wild rice and a pitcher of cool water, Bipsy. Nothing too hot nor too cold, he’s healing.”

 

Bipsy looked between him and Mrs.Malfoy, wringing her hands before disappearing with the gentlest crack Harry had ever heard. It was almost as if she were trying her best not to disturb them.

 

“Bipsy has been frightfully concerned for your health, Mr.Potter,” there was a twinkling in Mrs.Malfoy’s eyes that vaguely reminded him of Dumbledore.

 

“Call me Harry,” he pleaded, the name  _ Mr.Potter  _ settling over him too heavily after see his father on what he’d begun calling in his mind the ‘other side.” She nodded, staring at him curiously before the two of them slipped into a companionable silence.

 

Harry hadn’t realized how ravenous he was until Bipsy reappeared with a silver tray full, a bowl of broth front and center. She placed it in his lap gingerly and curtseyed to him, her large eyes shining with unshed tears. She gave him a big smile before she looked to Mrs.Malfoy for further instructions. When none came, she left just as silently as she’d come and left Mrs.Malfoy to slowly feed the soup to him. He tried to protest but she merely swatted his hands away gently and pinned him with a maternal state he wasn’t used to receiving from anyone other than Molly Weasley.

 

“Harry, I’m going to ask you something,” Mrs.Malfoy paused for a moment, grasping for the right word “invasive.”

 

Harry looked over at her, taking another sip of his water. He felt the energy around them shift and immediately felt the need to be on edge. “Alright,” he muttered, setting the glass down and putting his hands in his lap.

 

“Before you died, what is the last thing you remember?”

 

Harry hadn’t been expecting that. He stared down at the ivory sheets pooling around him, fiddling with the soft fabric absently as his brain sped through the events of the night he died. He remembered uncle Vernon charging for him, remembered the pain and the deep sadness he felt. He remembered feeling the air leaving his lungs until they felt dry and on fire and small. He remembered how he wished that it would all end. Wish. He felt his cheeks warm up at the thought of it.

 

“I made a wish,” he shrugged.

 

The silence that sat between them felt deafening. Mrs.Malfoy was stock still as if she were made of stone, her back erect and unwavering, her chest barely moving as she breathed. “Oh you silly, silly boy. You don’t even know what you’ve done,” she whispered after what seemed like forever. She clutched one hand to her chest, the other grasping his firmly.

 

“You must tell me  _ everything _ ,” she urged, moving his hand to press it against her heart. She looked ready to weep. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaah, after months of tweaking this chapter it's finally finished and uploaded. Feel free to let me know what you thought in the comments or come chit chat with me over on my tumblr @seductresses-temple
> 
> I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it!


	5. Broken Pieces

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has given me so much trouble...y'all have no idea the agony I went through to get this chapter up for you guys. I hope you enjoy it because someone has to at this point lol.
> 
> CW: There is a brief panic/anxiety attack in the beginning half of the chapter. People that may find this triggering, please be advised to read with caution. It's nothing major, more alluding to a panic attack than actually depicting one but I always want my readers to be informed.

Harry was grateful. He wasn’t sure whether it was a ‘mum’ thing, a ‘pureblood, aristocratic, ingrained manners and politeness,’ thing, or simply a ‘Narcissa Malfoy’ thing, but whatever it was that made Mrs.Malfoy so intent on ignoring the elephant in the room; Harry was tremendously grateful for not having to talk about his scar. After so many years of it being hidden to the naked eye, he’d forgotten how broken it made him feel. Almost instinctively he felt his fingertips twitch with the impulse to run his fingers over it. Hideous. Grotesque. The words echoed in his mind, harsh and hard to push away. He screwed his eyes shut for a moment and took a sip of his tea. Just knowing his scar was in plain sight made something heavy and slimy coil tight in the pit of his stomach.

 

Shame.

 

Disgust. 

 

Hatred. 

 

Loathing.

 

Harry was still reeling. He’d died. His uncle Vernon had killed him and in the mess of all that he’d wound up in  _ Malfoy Manor  _ of all the places in the entire world. Despite how kind Mrs.Malfoy had been to him, there was a piece of him still half expecting Voldemort to burst through the doors at any moment to kill him since apparently  _ death  _ was just the theme of the summer. Harry sighed, taking a sip of his tea and relaxing back into the chair Mrs.Malfoy had put him in, thankful the high, curved back shielded his face from view. 

 

It was all too much to take in, especially in the small bit of time he’d had to digest it. 

 

The sheer stress of it all felt as if it were swallowing him whole, eating him alive in a single, sickening gulp. It didn’t help that his magic was still running amuck whenever it chose. Mrs.Malfoy told him until his magic had the opportunity to fully replenish itself he would still have outbursts of errant magic. The best way Harry could figure it was like comparing his magic to a feral animal, lashing out at any perceived threat: violent, erratic, dangerous. 

 

He was dangerous...and as uneasy as he felt about being in Malfoy Manor, the home of his enemy...he felt just as guilty knowing he was a danger to both of them. 

 

It was all too much. 

 

Harry hadn’t realized how heavily he’d been relying on his magic, how interconnected it was to every piece of him until it had been pushed past its limits, exhausted. The entire ordeal was mind boggling yet through it all, Mrs.Malfoy remained at his side seemingly unaffected by it all. One catastrophe after another, she handled it all with a grace Harry was sure other women envied her for.

 

When Harry was certain he’d had a heart attack -he supposes his magic subconsciously attempted to put the glamour back in place once he’d started hyperventilating over the ghastly thing- Mrs.Malfoy had jumped straight to his aide. She ran diagnostic spells, broke each one down so he understood what was happening to him. She swears he didn’t have a heart attack, that he had what Muggles call a  _ panic attack  _ but Harry didn’t know what else to call feeling as though a boa constrictor had wrapped around your heart and thrashed it around a bit for fun. Mrs.Malfoy hypothesized his accelerated heart rate caused a knee-jerk reaction to his magic...his depleted, faulty, wild magic…

 

Harry supposed it made him feel good to know his magic was trying to protect him in what little ways it could. At least that’s how he felt until he’d set Malfoy’s sheets on fire. He hadn’t  _ meant  _ to- even if it would have been hilarious to see the git’s face when his sheets went up in smoke- it was an accident. One second he’d been talking to Mrs.Malfoy and the next second he couldn’t stop thinking about his scar, wondering what she thought about it, if she was looking at it, thinking about it, disgusted over it and well…

 

_ Poof.  _

 

Mrs.Malfoy didn’t even blink. She simply put the fire out with one swish of her wand and changed the sheets with Harry still in the bed with another. The motion felt like what Harry imagined sitting on a water bed must feel like. It would have been wicked under normal circumstances but when had anything in Harry’s life ever been  _ normal  _ of all things?

 

According to Mrs.Malfoy, he -no matter how unintentional-  was putting undue stress on his exhausted magic and equally exhausted body. So, she’d cast Immobulus on him and levitated him down to a small sitting room, sat beside him rather than facing him, and Bipsy had brought them tea. Harry would bet all his gold in Gringotts that Mrs.Malfoy had Bipsy dosed his tea with some calming draught or another but the more he drank the less he cared. Harry had given up on any semblance of normalcy a long time ago, sometime between getting his Hogwarts letter and finding out his best friend’s rat betrayed his parents and got them killed. So what if he was calmly drinking tea with his enemies mother? And so what if he’d ended up in his enemies house after he wished that...well, never mind the wish...it all seemed like a perfectly abnormal day in the strangely bizarre life of Harry Potter. 

 

“You realize, of course, that you’ll have to tell me what happened sooner rather than later, Harry dear?” Harry started. He’d been so absorbed in thought he’d half forgotten Mrs.Malfoy was still in the room. 

 

“Do I have to?” He was comfortable. They had been sitting in such a companionable silence. It was like they’d been doing it for years. What did she want to ruin it for by bringing up what happened at Privet Drive? Still...she’d been going out of her way to be so kind to him...and he was in  _ her  _ house, unannounced, and with no clue as to when he’d be well enough to leave. He sighed, taking another sip of his tea. He felt like he owed her the truth.

 

“It would help a great deal,” Mrs.Malfoy’s tone was gentle...but coaxing. Harry could tell she wasn’t going to  _ force  _ him to say anything but at the same time, it wouldn’t be for lack of subtly trying. 

 

He paused for a moment, unsure of where to start and even more unsure of just how much he should tell her. Yes, she healed him. Yes, she was taking excellent care of him but this was still  _ Malfoy bloody Manor,  _ home of two out of four of his greatest enemies. How could he be sure she was trustworthy? For all he knew, she could be pumping him for information and feeding it to Voldemort so he could attack while Harry was at his weakest. “Well,” he murmured after a while, scratching the back of his head a bit. When no other words came to mind, he stared intently into his tea and wished it had knocked him out already so he could have avoided the conversation all together. He took a large swallow just to stall for time, a wave of calm washing over him. 

 

“My uncle’s never liked me much,” Harry thought a statement like that deserved a trophy for  _ Understatement of the Century.  _ He took another sip of his tea, thinking briefly about how Hermione would have yelled at him if she knew he was drinking tea he was more than positive was laced with something. It made him smile just to think of her. He missed her...and Ron, he’d give anything to be playing a game of Exploding Snaps instead of talking about the Dursley’s. 

 

“Harry?” Mrs.Malfoy’s voice brought his consciousness to the forefront, dragging him out of his wandering thoughts again.

 

Harry felt warm and fuzzy in a drowsy, “out of it” sort of way he wasn’t used to feeling. Usually his thoughts ran a mile a minute and it was damned difficult to pin one down. It was typically just a never ending barrage of flurried thoughts, worries, fears, and fragmented pieces of Voldemort’s mind dominating his every waking second. It felt nice to be so calm...

 

“Is there Veritaserum in this?” he blurted out so suddenly he couldn’t even stop himself if he tried. He leaned over just enough to see her face while still keeping his ghastly disfigurement more or less out of sight.

 

Mrs.Malfoy arched a perfectly sculpted brow at him. He’d seen Malfoy make that face so many times over the years, Harry certainly saw where he got it from now. It was uncanny how similar the two looked. Mrs.Malfoy was just an older, prettier, more feminine version of his mum. Harry suddenly felt terrible for thinking she looked as if she constantly smelled something rotten under her nose when he’d first seen her at the Quidditch World Cup. It was still sort of true, she was pretty in a pointy, dangerous kind of way just like Mal-

 

“What is your name?” Mrs.Malfoy asked him, cutting off Harry’s train of thought at precisely the perfect moment. Surely defying the laws of physics, her eyebrow arched more than Harry thought humanly possible, her cool blue eyes boring into him.

 

“Roonil Wazlib?” Harry winced as the name rolled off his tongue, the stark image of Malfoy’s crisp white shirt drenched in his own blood slashing through Harry’s mind. That image plagued his dreams just as much as Dumbledore...falling...falling. He took in a ragged breath, shaking his head frantically to shake the images loose. He didn’t want to think about that, didn’t want to think about Malfoy lying on the cold, dingy floor, the way his body looked so frail. He looked so helpless. Harry had done that. He’d nearly killed him. He almost killed someone.. 

 

If it hadn’t been for Snape.

 

Snape. 

 

No, Snape was no savior. He was a murder, a cold-blooded, ruthless killer.

 

_ “Severus, please…”  _

 

Was Harry any different?

 

_ “Avada Kedavra” _

 

_ Green. Washing out everything. Consuming everything.  _

 

_ “Sectumsempra!”  _

 

_ Blood. Blood everywhere.  _

 

“Harry!”

 

“Mr.Potter!” Harry could hear Mrs.Malfoy calling for him but she was a world away from the blinding green light exploding from the tip of Snape’s wand. 

 

“Harry, drink your tea, darling,” his head snapped up at the sudden clarity of Mrs.Malfoy’s voice. She didn’t sound so far away anymore, her soothing voice driving away the hellscape of his memories. He took a shuddering breath, opening his eyes to see her crouched down in front of him, her gaze unwavering as she stared into his eyes. He immediately thought of his scar and felt his heartbeat quicken. She was looking at him, looking at  _ it. _

 

“Shh, it’s alright, darling. Drink your tea,” she whispered. He could see tension around the corners of her eyes, the faintest tug around the edges of her mouth. He looked down to where her hand was resting tenderly atop his free hand, her fingertips raw and angry as they withstood the damage of his errant magic coiling around his skin. Blue tendrils pulsated like veins against his brown skin, wisps of it lashing out and ricocheting around the room like an animal frantically trying to escape capture. 

 

“Mrs.Malfoy!” he jumped back in his seat, guilt washing over him.

 

The magic came to a screeching halt.

 

“I-I’m so sorry,” he whispered, staring at her hand. It reminded him of Dumbledore, his charred fingers blackened by dark magic.

 

“It’s alright, Harry,” Mrs.Malfoy merely smiled at him. She looked like an angel, radiant and forgiving. She brought the cup up to his lips and he drank it obediently, staring at her fingertips the entire time. He drank the entire thing in one go and immediately felt himself bundled up in a haze of calm. 

 

“That’s a good boy,” Mrs.Malfoy cooed and Harry felt warmth bloom in his chest at the words.

 

“You sit tight,” she whispered, petting him on the head briefly with her unmarred hand.

 

Harry watched her walk out of the room for a moment. He could hear her calling Bipsy and giving her instructions to bring her a pair of gloves and a tincture of something he didn’t quite catch. He hadn’t meant to hurt her. He hadn’t meant for any of this to happen. One minute he’d been suffocating underneath his uncle’s weight...his wish...his stupid, selfish wish landed them all in this nonsense. He sighed heavily, sinking back in his seat and contemplating just telling Mrs.Malfoy the truth. 

 

Things couldn’t get any worse than they already were.

 

Mrs.Malfoy had been so kind to him despite everything. Maybe he should just tell her. He watched her with rapt fascination when she came back into the room, placing droplets from the tincture over her fingers before slipping a fitted silk glove over her hand. Harry couldn’t fathom how she could be so calm about everything. Harry had just...barged into her home because of some silly wish: he’d hurt her, nearly set her son’s whole bed on fire, depleted her potions stores, exhausted her, and was still so distrusting of her but none of it seemed to matter. He watched her back into her chair as if nothing had ever happened. 

 

She was magnificent. 

 

Harry couldn’t understand why Malfoy had idolized his wanker of a father all these years. His mother was practically a goddess in the flesh. 

 

“I wished to be somewhere-” Harry couldn’t possibly tell her the whole truth but he would get as close as he could.. She deserved that much.  “My uncle…” he gestured down to his body “did all this. H-he, well, he killed me and right before I died…”

 

“You made a Wish,” all Harry could do was nod. 

 

“Oh this is more troubling than I feared-”

 

“It was just a silly wish, I didn’t think anything would come of it, I don’t even remember what I wished for. I didn’t expect to be...here,” Harry meant it in every sense of the word. He’d been  _ dying.  _ How was he to know he’d end up alive again and in Malfoy Manor with Draco sodding Malfoy cleaning his wounds to boot?

 

“It’s ancient magic, darling,” Mrs.Malfoy sighed, “and it’s a  _ Death Wish _ no less. This complicates things a great deal.”

 

All Harry could do was stare. He had no idea what she was going on about. 

 

“What on earth are they teaching at Hogwarts these days?” Mrs.Malfoy seemed half miserable and half exasperated by his silence. He still didn’t understand what the big deal was. When he didn’t say anything she rose from her chair and began pacing the room, the ends of her robe swishing against the carpet. 

 

“Magic is a life force unto itself. It's alive, interconnected to the heart and the brain of every wizard. Think of your glamour, Harry, think of all the accidental magic you created as a child, as a young wizard,  _ Wishes  _ rampant desires made reality with powerful magic and little to no conscious thought. Your magic was free, unbidden, untrained, and untethered. It had no conduit. We use wands and spells as conduits, something to tether our magic and draw focus to filter out miscellaneous wants into conscious thoughts. Even wandless magic still has a conduit, the hands, something to streamline the process so errand magic isn’t just unleashing with wild abandon. Wish magic,” Mrs.Malfoy sighed, picking up her tea cup and sipping at it as she stared at Harry long and hard. 

 

“Wish magic is complex,” she said at length. 

 

Harry’s brows furrowed “Why do I have the feeling you’re about to tell me really bad news?”

 

“Wish magic is both accidental and yet decidedly not. The Wish itself acts as a conduit, pulling focus and directing errant magic into a Wish, a wanting, a necessity so dire magic sees fit to make it a reality. Whatever you wished for, Harry, brought you here and without knowing what lengths your magic went to protect you. You- Until we know what lengths your magic went to protect you, until you can remember  _ precisely  _ what you wished for...you are most likely stuck here, bound magically to the Manor.” 

 

Harry could feel his magic whipping into a frenzy again but whatever his tea had been laced with kept a firm hold on it. A vase nearby blasted to smithereens and a painting clattered to the floor but that aside, the rest of the room, along with Mrs.Malfoy and himself remained unscathed. He couldn’t even see his magic. He just felt...aloft even though he could feel his magic thrumming over every inch of his skin. 

 

“I’m afraid you’ve left me no choice, pet, we’ll need to work on your outbursts but hopefully she can talk some sense into you” Mrs.Malfoy walked away from him and knelt down on a large, puffy cushion sitting in front of the fire. 

 

_ She? _ She Who? Harry watched her curiously as she took a pinch of floo powder and thrust her head inside of the fire. 

 

“The Burrow.”

________________________________

 

Molly sighed softly, brushing tears off her face as she read the letter from Remus again for the fourth time. Her poor Harry. Missing. What was she to do about that boy? Every single time she thought she’d gotten through to him, gotten him to understand that he didn’t have to go charging head first into the war effort like his parents had…he was just a  _ boy _ . Harry, Ginny, Ron, Hermione, Fred, George, Percy, none of them needed to be running off to get themselves killed. She  _ barely  _ tolerated the hands that Bill and Charlie played in everything but they were much too grown now to listen to their old mum. They did their part and were wise enough to make the decision even if she didn’t approve.

 

How could she? 

 

How could a mother ever let her children have any part in so much death and destruction? And now Harry was Merlin only knew where...probably stressed and frightened, and of course he wasn’t eating properly. 

 

“Mum, mum come quick you’ll never believe who’s in the fire for you!” Fred and George came barreling into the kitchen one right after the other as always, mischievous grins plastered on their faces. 

 

“What are you lot on about?” Molly managed a smile, quickly tucking the letter from Remus into the folds of her apron. She hoped whatever news they had could distract them from how red and splotchy she knew her face had to be. She always got like that when she cried. 

 

Fred and George shared a look but apparently whatever juicy bit of gossip they had to spill was enough for them not to mention the tear tracks on her face. Molly watched the two of them share a look before turning back to look at her. Whatever it was must be good because their magic bouncing around like jack rabbits. 

 

“Malfoy’s mum is in the fire!” they chimed together.

 

Molly swatted at them both with a tea towel “You boys are impossible. What would  _ Lady Malfoy  _ want with me?” just saying the woman’s name made her lips curl back. Honestly, what was she going to do with her two jokesters running amok? They never let her have a moment’s rest! Dinner still needed to be cooked and she still had to find  _ some  _ way to tell Ron and Hermione that their best friend is missing. Now Fred and George thought they’d have a go at her no reason at all. The two of them were going to turn her hair silver by summers end. 

 

“But mum,” George was the first one to stop smiling.

 

“It’s the honest truth,” Fred swore. 

 

“Boys, enough!” Molly snapped. She waved her hand at the dishes and they immediately settled back into the sink. She needed something to do, something to busy herself with, and Fred and George’s wild stories weren’t helping anything. 

 

“They’re telling the truth, mum,” Ginny appeared in the doorway, fidgeting with the hem of her shirt. It broke Molly's heart to see the way Ginny still squirmed whenever the Malfoys were brought up. She was a tough girl, tough as nails just like her Mum but after that dreadful business with that bloody diary…Ginny had never quite been the same. Molly couldn't say she'd be too remiss if Lucius Malfoy weren't to make it through to the end of the war.

 

“All of you, upstairs,” Molly ordered, standing stock still, wrist deep in soapy water.

 

Fred and George looked at her with twin expressions of mock horror “How come you believe it when she says it?” they cried in unison.

 

“Upstairs,  _ now _ ” she repeated, her magic whipping around the room in one loud, threatening crack.

 

Ginny ushered her brothers upstairs and the second they were out of sight Molly warded the stairs and the entire first floor. She was no fool. Narcissa Malfoy at her fire? It could only mean trouble and she wasn’t going to take any chances and she knew Fred and George would be at the ready with some invention or another trying to listen in.

 

Whatever was about to transpire was something Molly didn’t want her children anywhere near.

 

Clutching her wand inside of her apron pocket, she sat down in front of the fire and grasped at straws trying to remember all the stuffy pureblood poppycock about manners and politeness she’d learned in her youth.

 

“So sorry for the wait, Lady Malfoy,” she said stiffly, bowing her head out of respect even though she had about as much respect for Narcissa Malfoy as un-potty-trained Crup had with a rug. 

 

“That’s quite alright, Lady Weasley,” Narcissa sounded just as stiff, their disdain for one another so thinly veiled Molly half wondered why they were trying but she wasn’t going to give in until she knew what the blonde haired toadstool wanted.  

 

“A matter of such importance is one worth being patient for. I couldn’t trust an owl with information so dire. We’ve a problem,” Narcissa’s voice dropped down to a whisper and Molly hated herself for being roped in by it. 

 

“What sort of problem, Lady Malfoy, and why call me? What help can I possibly be?” Molly leaned in a little closer, her grip on her wand relaxing just a fraction. 

 

“Harry is here at the Manor.”

 

Molly gripped her wand so tightly she felt one of her knuckles crack. Her magic crackling over her skin like orange lightning, making her hair stand on ends. “What have you done with him?” she hissed, all pretense and politeness thrown out the window. When Narcissa’s face contorted into a look of affronted astonishment, Molly could have practically snorted smoke out her nose.

 

“What have you done with him? I won’t ask again.” Molly all but snarled. 

 

“I’ve done what any mother in my position would do, though _clearly_ mother isn’t a title you deem me worthy of, Lady Weasley. I have half a mind t-” Narcissa took a deep breath, breathing out slowly through pursed lips. 

 

“Harry is here because of Wish magic, let us focus on that rather than squabbling like children more than half our age, shall we?”

 

Molly felt her heart flutter, her grip on her wand going completely lax. Wish magic? Oh Gods. What had Harry gotten himself into now? She took a steadying breath, clearing her throat and trying to reign in her emotions. She may like Narcissa Malfoy about as much as she liked the gnomes in her garden but one of her children had gotten tossed in the mix of all this. Her disdain for the Malfoys as a whole would just have to sit on the sidelines. 

 

“I’d like to speak with, Harry, if that’s quite alright?” They both knew it wasn’t a question but Narcissa conceded anyway. The flames died for a moment, giving Molly a chance to run her hands through her thick red hair. Her children were definitely going to turn her completely grey by summer's end. Wish magic, really!

 

“Hi Mrs.Weasley,” Harry’s sheepish face appeared in the fire and Molly could cry just looking at him. He seemed well off enough if not a little worse for wear. She took in a deep breath, smiling softly. 

 

“Hi Harry, dear, are you alright?” 

 

”I’m alright, Mrs.Weasley, tired though.”

 

Molly dabbed at her eyes, fishing the letter from Remus out of her pocket and waving it at Harry “Now that I know you’re alright, I’ll beg your pardon not to scare me half to death next time! The entire O- we’ve all been worried sick, Harry.” She couldn’t bring up the Order, not with Narcissa skulking around. 

 

“Sorry, Mrs.Weasley.” 

 

“As you should be, now, tell me about this Wish. You have to be honest with me Harry and tell me everything you remember dear.”

 

The second Harry opened his mouth, Molly knew she was lying. All of her children had a tell when they lied. Bill always fiddled with his nails when he lied. Charlie always tugged at his earlobe when he lied. Percy always scratched the tip of his nose right before telling a lie no matter how rare it was. Fred and George were mischievous heathens with twin devilish grins that they whipped out so frequently it was hard to tell when they were lying half the time or just trying to make you  _ think  _ they were lying to have a laugh at your expense. Ron always stuttered a bit when he lied, he was a terrible liar which he got from his father. Ginny always adjusted the neck of her shirt right before a lie and Harry James Potter always looked down right before he lied. 

 

“ _ I don’t remember what I wished for, exactly, just that I wished to be somewhere safe. _ ”

 

Really, one would think at nearly seventeen, children would realize lying to their parents was futile. Molly listened to Harry’s half truths about the situation with the impending dread. If they were ever going to get this mess sorted out it would take her and Narcissa Malfoy teaming up to try to navigate the ins and outs of Harry’s magic with limited information. The thought of ever being on the same side of the playing field as that grandiloquent, prissy little…

 

“Mrs.Weasley?” Harry was staring at her with wide, concerned eyes. Bless his heart. 

 

“I’m alright dear, just...lost in thought. You should get some rest and let me have a word with, Mrs.Malfoy. Since you can’t remember what you wished for, she and I are going to have to figure out how to bring you home to the Burrow.” Molly smiled her best ‘Mother’s Smile,’ the type of smile that lets children know their mother didn’t believe a word they said. 

 

At least Harry had the decency to look somewhat shameful. 

 

“You don’t believe him either, I see,” Narcissa said the moment she appeared back in the flames.

 

Molly could only nod. “He’s hiding something. The sooner we figure out what, the better.”

 

“So you admit there needs to be a  _ we  _ for this dilemma, how charitable of you, Lady Weasley.”

 

It took everything in Molly not to be the first witch ever to hex someone through a fireplace. She smiled tersely, putting her shoulders back and swallowing her pride. There was nothing Molly Weasley wouldn’t do for her children even if that meant playing nice with a woman she despised. “Seeing as Harry is in your care, I see no other viable options for the time being until we can bring him home where he belongs.” Though, watching the crow’s feet gather at the corner of Narcissa’s eyes any time she tried to bite back a scathing comment certainly was an added bonus for Molly. Just because she’d do anything for her kids didn’t mean she couldn’t have her own fun while doing it.

 

Ending the fire call with Narcissa after agreeing to meet in three days in Muggle London should have been a relief. She knew where Harry was and by all accounts he seemed safe enough but Molly didn’t trust it. What was stopping Narcissa to turning Harry over to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named at any given moment? What if Lucius escaped from Azkaban and killed Harry in his sleep? There were too many variables and not enough truth from Harry to negate any of the worst ones circling around in her head. Moments such as this made Molly mourn for Dumbledore more than she already did.

 

Dumbledore would have known what to do. Or, at the very least, where to start.

 

The only thing Molly could think to do was two things.

 

The first, she found a piece of spare parchment and wrote note to Remus.

 

_ The Cub is safe.  _

 

Secondly, she marched over to the clock and looked over all the names. Arthur, Bill, and Percy were all at work. Charlie, thanks to his work with those blasted dragons had moved to mortal peril and rarely moved unless he came home to visit. Fred, George, Ron, and Ginny were all safe at home. All of her children were accounted for except one. Lifting her wand and closing her eyes, Molly inhaled deeply. She focused all her love and concern for Harry into her magic as she recited the spell, opening her eyes to see Harry’s hand on the clock spinning dangerously out of control before landing on  _ Home  _ with a resounding  _ thwick! _

 

“Oh Harry,” Molly sighed softly, hand over her heart. What had Harry gotten himself into this time?

 

__________________________________________

 

Draco crouched down by his mother’s side, patting her knee gently “Time for bed, Mother,” he whispered, shaking her gently. He watched her start, bolting upright from her hunched over position against the large table in the family library. Dozens of books were spread out in front of her, a foot long roll of parchment on her right was covered in notes. Draco had lost track of how long she’d been researching with Granger-esque concentration but it was well past midnight and thunder storming. It was time for her to a proper night’s rest in her own bed.

 

“Oh, Draco,” she smiled at him tiredly, carding her fingers through his hair for a moment. 

 

“How sweet, mon petit ange has come to check on me. What time is it?” 

 

Draco’s entire face felt like it was one fire. “You haven’t called me that since I was little,” he murmured, staring down at his Dark Mark with renewed disgust. He certainly didn’t feel like an angel with  _ that  _ sullying his skin. He felt dirty. He felt wrong. Sometimes he wondered how his mother could still look at him as if he hung the sun. 

 

“Draco?” 

 

“It’s late, Mother. You should get some rest.” He stood and helped her rise from her chair, walking her to her bedroom.   

 

“You’re such a good boy, Draco. My sweet little boy, check on Harry for me before you head back to bed, won’t you?”  without waiting for a reply, his mother reached up on her tiptoes to kiss him on the forehead. Draco wasn’t sure if his mother was in his head or just telling him precisely what he needed to hear. It was hard to tell with mothers. Still, it put his mind at ease, even if it was just for the moment.

 

“Good night, darling.”

 

“Good night, Mother.” Draco closed the door behind himself and headed down the hall to his bedroom, a part of him still sour that Potter had commandeered it. Though, truth be told he was sour about a great deal of things: what had happened to his sheets, the fact that Potter had thrown a bloody chair at him, pinned him with his incredibly powerful, alluring magic, and the fact that Potter was in the Manor in the first place was just a clusterfuck of too many things for Draco to deal with. Leave it to Potter to add to the stress he was already under. 

 

Draco walked over to his bed and immediately felt his heart clench as he looked down at Harry’s face. His mother had told him the scar was bad but he never imagined...no wonder Harry’s magic had cast a glamour over it. It truly was like lightning, the way it struck down across a quarter of Harry’s face, the brunt of the trauma curved along his temple while smaller tendrils of scarring came down over his eye, stopping right on the top of his cheek, a thin jagged scar grazed over the side of his nose, and the entire thing was pulsating with a glowing, fiery red magic. 

 

_ The Dark Lord’s magic _ . Draco knew it was true but he didn’t want to face it. He stood at Harry’s bedside for what felt like an eternity, a dreaded, morbid curiosity bubbling up inside his mind like a frothy cauldron. He needed to know, had to know. He couldn’t help himself. Gnawing at his bottom lip, Draco pressed his fingers against Harry’s wrist, checking his pulse and confirming his worst fear. 

 

The magic surging within the confines of the scar was keeping time with the Dark Lord’s heartbeat, not Harry’s. His tears were dripping down onto his shirt before he even realized he was crying. Usually he’d hear his father’s voice in the back of his mind, cold and cynical, reminding him that  _ Malfoy men don’t cry _ but Draco couldn’t hear anything over the sound of the thunder, the rain, and his heart breaking. He removed his hand slowly, savoring the brief touch of his fingers upon Harry’s skin and moved to leave the room when Harry let out a piercing scream that had Draco rushing back to his bedside. 

 

“No! Please! Not Cedric, not Cedric!” Harry was thrashing wildly against the mattress, his magic trying and failing to coil around his limbs like flickering fairy lights blinking into nothingness. His body was too exhausted. 

 

“Potter, Potter wake up!” Draco gripped his shoulders, shaking him lightly but it only seemed to make things worse. Harry thrashed against him, sobbing and screaming until Draco did the only thing he could think of, hoping beyond hope it wouldn’t get him blasted halfway across the room again. He eased into bed behind Harry and pulled him tight against his chest, grunting with the effort of holding him relatively still as he sung the only thing close to a lullaby that he knew. 

 

_ “Des yeux qui font baisser les miens _

_ Un rire qui se perd sur sa bouche _

_ Voilà le portrait sans retouches _

_ De l'homme auquel j'appartiens _

_ Quand il me prend dans ses bras _

_ Il me parle tout bas _

_ Je vois la vie en rose.” _

Draco held on to Harry tightly, rocking him gently when he stopped trashing. There were still tears streaming down his face and his chest heaved up and down as if he couldn’t catch his breath. Sighing, Draco smoothed Harry’s hair out of his face, watching the way his thick brows furrowed together as he whined every few seconds or so. He seemed to be in so much pain.  Swallowing thickly, Draco tried to pretend as if it wasn’t incredibly awkward or overwhelming for him to be holding the only boy he’d ever loved, who was also supposed to be his enemy, in his arms, and singing him the same song his mother used to sing to him when he was a child. It seemed to be helping though and knowing he could do just  _ one  _ good thing drove him to keep singing. 

_ “Il me dit des mots d'amour _

_ Des mots de tous les jours _

_ Et ça me fait quelque chose _

_ Il est entré dans mon cœur _

_ Une part de bonheur _

_ Dont je connais la cause _

_ C'est lui pour moi, moi pour lui dans la vie _

_ Il me l'a dit, l'a juré pour la vie _

_ Et dès que je l'aperçois _

_ Alors je sens en moi _

_ Mon cœur qui bat _

_ Des nuits d'amour à plus finir  _

_ Un grand bonheur qui prend sa place _

_ Des ennuis, des chagrins s'effacent _

_ Heureux, heureux à en mourir _

_ Quand il me prend dans ses bras _

_ Il me parle tout bas _

_ Je vois la vie en rose.” _

Draco kept singing until Harry completely relaxed against him, the most annoyingly cute snore the only noise drifting from him every now and again. He knew it was wrong, but Draco settled against the headboard, humming quietly as he stroked Harry’s arm until he too fell asleep, peaceful and warm. Draco slept with Harry until the early hours of the morning before slipping out of the room near sunrise. 

Unbeknownst to Draco, however, he’d left a very drowsy Harry Potter in his wake. Harry had woken up feeling more peaceful and well rested, more so than he’d ever remembered feeling, with a vague memory of a song he didn’t understand stuck in his head, and his skin still warm from being held most of the night. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: Edith Piaf, La Vie En Rose
> 
> Special thanks to Quicksilvermaid for continually listening to me bitch about this story, helping me workshop, and just generally being a dope friend. 
> 
> Also, please note this chapter has not been beta'ed cause sometimes having someone go over my work just fills me with too much anxiety so...this chapter is what it is, I hope you like it, and if you don't that's okay too but how about you don't comment on it? Cause, its 2019, and it would be dope if we could all be kinder to one another this year.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm writing "Pieces" as yet another passion project that hits heavily on something I've struggled with my whole life: racial identity. Being mixed race, I have always felt really Othered, too black to be white and too white to be black and I've been shunned a lot by both communities and it took me a long time to find my place and to own my blackness so this work is really close to my heart.That being said, I can't promise that these two side stories will be any good so please, if you have any recommendations, critiques, comments, questions, concerns, don't hesitate to ask. I want input, badly, because I'm really trying to hone in on my craft.This chapter in particular was all about alliteration and repetition, things that are proven to help make a speech memorable and I wondered if it would also work for fiction. I, for whatever reason, really love alliteration and it was fun to play around with.
> 
> Theme is also something I was tinkering around with in this chapter. You may or may not have noticed the repetition of words like "tight" and reiterating the phrase "the tiniest bedroom of number 4 Privet Drive." This is because everything in this chapter is centered around Dumbledore's death. It's what sends Harry into his nightmare and sets the pace for the whole chapter. When I read Half Blood Prince and read the paragraphs leading up to Dumbledore's death it makes me feel incredibly claustrophobic. Rowling does a great job of setting up this scene (even though we have effectively booted her out of the fandom lol) because when I'm in Harry's shoes, so to speak, the paralysis Harry is subjected to makes me think of conforming, restricted spaces. I wanted the theme of this chapter to be something along the lines of dealing with tight, claustrophobic situations. Harry trying to deal with death, actually dying, second-hand experiencing his father's internalized shame, and he has unknowingly thrust himself into an awkward situation but shhhh, he hasn't figured that out yet.
> 
> The overall theme of this fic is identity and intersectionality. Our identities are made up of fragmented pieces of ourselves that come together and intersect to make one glorious human. Humans are so multifaceted. We don't always show all our pieces to everyone and sometimes, the pieces that we hide away are the pieces that are the most important. Sometimes the pieces that we hide away are the pieces we're ashamed of. Intersectionality is a core part of our makeup in society and its inevitable, unavoidable. This story is all about Harry finding the missing pieces in others as well as himself as he comes to term with his intersecting identities.
> 
> The scene with James. I was given a great opportunity to explore a scene that combats the stereotype of emotionally stunted black fathers. Black men are far too often depicted as being incapable of being communicative, especially to their children and especially in regard to their sons. So, I wanted to take the chance and tinker with this soft, serious, and slightly shameful James. I wanted a Prongs that could laugh easily with Harry to diffuse some of the tension of the reality of Harry's death, a Dad who could remind Harry of how loved he is because he sees where this whole story is going, and a James that could momentarily reflect on the privilege living in the Wizarding world afforded him, something Harry never got until relatively recently. I wanted to show more of James' intersecting identities too.
> 
> Which leads me to Petunia, having a white woman say the n-word honestly made my skin crawl, but we know that everything Lily said to her was absolutely true. She is a repugnant woman and I don't put it past her and Vernon to be complete and utter shitbag racists. I'm sure that if Harry Potter hadn't been geared toward children that the abuse Harry went through would have been touched upon more. It stands to reason that if my headcanon for Harry is that he's biracial that it would add a whole new level of hate to the playing field and highlighting Harry's intersection identities by making it blatantly obvious that Petunia and Vernon hate Harry because he's black AND a wizard.
> 
> Last but not least...this fic is going to be slow build and it's going to rip my heart out as much as it's going to rip out yours. I apologize in advance. Let's hope that my resolve breaks and I put Harry and Draco together much quicker than I intend to as it stands right now
> 
> If you have miraculously stayed to read all of these notes, bless you, you sweet precious cinnamon roll. I love you. Thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed yourself :)


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